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James' Story
"Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, Nobody knows my-" What, don't you like my singing? Be careful how you answer, 'cause I'm the one with the knife. Oh, don't you look at me like that, you know I'm just playing .... more or less. ... look I think we got off on the wrong foot, my foot not yours, 'cause you know, yours are kinda gone. Heh, I've got to hand it to you, for a lanky little runt you've got some strong calves; never thought I would be able to get the saw through, but hey, that's what you get for trying to run. Sorry, that was a little off tangent I know, it just happens sometimes. Anyway, let's start over. Hi, I'm James, James Harvey. I'm 19 years old, I would have graduated this year, I'm a Capricorn, and sometimes I like to have a little fun with my victim's bodies. Hahahaha I'm kidding, I'm not a Capricorn. But I'm sure you don't care about any of that. Don't worry, I know what you really want to know. Hmm... something on the lines of, "Why are you doing this?!" "What did I ever do to you?" "Please let me live!" Heheh, yeah, I hear that all the time. It's annoying really, it sounds so whiny. It's like that buzz you hear coming from the lights in a school that just go on and on and on and on until you snap and slice the principal's four year old girl's jugular ya know? Anyway, I guess I'd better explain it to you. Why I do what I do, I mean. Hmmm, I guess it started back in fourth grade, when I was about 9. You see, my mother, father, and I had to leave our house due to my father being an idiot and a meth lab explosion, totally unrelated. So he had decided that we would move to some little town in Georgia I'm sure you never heard of called Westburogh Hills. Tiny little town, where everybody knew everybody. Now you might find this hard to believe but, in a town where everyone is someone else's cousin, a new kid at school is not very popular. Hell, not very popular is an understatement really, the kids hated me- absolutely hated me. Everyday was a brand new hell for me. The boys would beat me until I was black and blue, girls would make me feel like an idiot if they didn't ignore me altogether, and the adults- Hah! Those sacks of crap could have cared less about what happens to the strange little boy that had no friends. My parents were no help either, my father had to work out of town so he was gone most of the time. My mother, if she wasn't bringing home a new man everyday to 'do business' with, she was all coked up on the couch, reminding me about how much of a mistake I was and how her life would have been so much better if I wasn't born. There were only three things that could make my life bearable and that was tissue paper, peroxide, and my dad's stainless steel switch-blade. Every time I cut myself I... I felt better about myself.... like I could just wash the pain away. So after about three years of this living hell I had a revelation, I don't know where it came from. It just popped in my head one day that, if cutting MYSELF felt so good, then how would it feel if I cut someone else? You know how they say the first time is the best, well they were right. I can remember my first time like it was yesterday. His name was Dilan Dereks, one of my major tormentors. Let me tell you, out of everyone that would bully me, he was the worst. I won't say what exactly he did but let's just say that to this day I can't use the toilet without tearing up. I cannot begin to describe to you how good it felt to have him kneeling on the ground, the blood pouring out of his stomach from the wound my dad's switchblade left, begging and crying like the little cur he was. They never found his remains. I bet to this day he is still floating at the bottom of that well, maggots eating out his horrid little blue eyes. After that I felt pretty good, for a while at least, but of course one missing child is not enough to stop the schoolyard torture. Honestly, I'm glad. 'Cause if it had then I might not be the wonderful man I am today. Naturally, because the bullying did not relent, neither did the deaths. In fact, just to make it fun I made a little game out of it. You see these scars? Each and every notch in my skin represents a child I killed. I got up to about four years and an arm's length before the adults started getting really worried, so to make sure I wouldn't end up as a suspect I decided to feign my own death. It wasn't hard really, just had to light the house on fire, kill my mom and dad, and replace my body with someone else's. So after that I started roaming the country, visiting all the great places, removing all sorts of little brats along the way. You want to talk about fun: remembering all the high-pitched shouts and screams from the little monsters as I bled them out slowly, peeling away at their flesh inch by inch. Ohh, it sends chills down my spine. But anyway, that's my story. Thank you for listening, really it meant a lot to me. You know what? Since you have been so kind as to listen to my story. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Remember the game I told you about? Well, I'm almost out of room; I have just enough space for one last notch and then it's game over. What happens then, well- Do you hear that? It's the police, they're coming here too...and I have a little confession to make. About ten minutes before our little conversation I phoned the police; you know, so they will be able to find you. So anyway, about that game over I was talking about, well, you see this knife-- this is my dad's trusty old switchblade. That's right, after all these years I kept it. I figured it would be poetic, in a way. The blade that started it all being the blade that finished it. Oh don't worry it's not like I'm going to use it on you, what with you being dead for half an hour and all. Well, I guess that's it then. I had a good run, I really did. I'm almost sad to see it all go but, I guess it's time for that one last notch... Goodbye. Category:Mental Illness Category:Dismemberment